She could never remember much about that journey. When she thought about it afterwards it resolved itself into something like a dream. There was the swaying of the train and the warmth of the carriage. Those two things she remembered, but nothing more. She thought that she slept a little, and woke again in a panic of fear lest she should have passed her station. And after that she stayed awake, but nothing felt real except the rushing of the train and the darkness close up against the windows. It was as if she was in a closed-in space and she was safe as long as she was there. Only she mustn’t rely upon this safety and fall asleep again.
The other people in the carriage came and went. The train stopped a good deal. Haleycott was a little place. Anything that stopped there would stop at a great many other places too. There was an elderly woman who looked at her very hard, and a young one, gay and laughing with a boy of her own age. They got out, and two other people got in, a woman and a child of about six.
And then they were at Haleycott. Anne got to her feet. She looked about her for her hat-box.
There wasn’t any hat-box.
And then she got out on to the platform and stood there with the most terribly lost feeling she had ever had. The train she had left was leaving her. She was a stranger in a strange place. A feeling of utter desolation swept over her, and then, hard upon it, something stronger. It was like the sun coming out. There, on the dim platform with the darkness crowding in, the light began to shine inside her. She stopped being afraid. She stopped thinking of all the things that might be going to happen. Her shoulders straightened up. She began to walk along the little station platform as if she had known it all her life, as if she was coming home.
There was a cab and she got into it. She said no, there was no luggage, and she gave the address that was on the letter in her bag. And then they were off..
She didn’t know what she thought of whilst they were driving. She didn’t know whether she thought of anything at all. When she thought about it afterwards there was only that feeling of a rising sun. There were good things that were going to happen in the coming day. It was a strange thing, but it did not seem strange to her, it felt perfectly natural.
The wheels went round, and presently the wheels stopped.
She got out, paid the man, and pulled the old-fashioned bell. It was not quite dark here. She could see the shape of the door and the line of the house with the small yellow lamps of the waiting taxi.
And then the hall door moved. At once she stepped forward. It was as if the opening of the door was like the rising of the curtain in a theatre, a signal for the play to begin. A woman stood there. She wore a brown dress and an apron. She had a quantity of grey hair. She said, ‘Oh, Mrs Jim!’ And then she turned and called over her shoulder, ‘Oh, Miss Lilian, it’s Mrs Jim!’ Then, with a quick turn back to the door, she put out both her hands and said in a warm, full voice, ‘Oh, my dear—what a coming home to be sure! But come you in—come you in!’
The taxi rolled away behind her and was gone. She walked into the hall of the house and saw Lilian Fancourt coming down the stair at the far end of it.
She knew who it was. That was one of the things that you think about afterwards. At the time there was no place for thought. Things kept happening.
Lilian Fancourt came down the stair with her hands out in welcome. Everything about her said the word. Everything about her said what wasn’t true. She came forward, she reached up, put her little hands on the tall girl’s shoulders and kissed her, and it was all like a scene from a play. There was no reality in it.
Of course, I don’t know how much you know.’
If Miss Fancourt had said that once, she had said it so many times that one’s mind stopped being able to take it in, and then each time she had leaned across to press her hand and to say, ‘Oh, but we mustn’t. We mustn’t dwell on all that, must we?’
The first two or three times it happened Anne found herself saying ‘No.’ And then it came home to her, that it wasn’t a thing to be answered—it was just her way of talking, so she didn’t say anything at all.
The woman who had let her in, and whose name was quite unbelievably Thomasina Twisledon, took her upstairs and along a wide passage to her room. She thought it would look out on the back, and was vaguely pleased, she didn’t know why. There was a bathroom next door, and Thomasina said the water was always hot.
Anne found herself taking off her hat and her coat and looking into the glass to see whether her hair was tidy. She didn’t know what she expected to see when she looked in the glass. Everything was so strange. Would what she saw be strange too—another Anne whom she had never seen before, looking at her from a dream life which had no connection with reality?
She looked into the mirror and saw herself—her own real self. The relief was so great that the face she looked at, with its brown curling hair, its dark blue eyes, its parted lips, swam in a sudden mist. She leaned on her hands and let the giddiness go by.
Thomasina stood on the other side of the bed and watched her. In her own mind she was saying things like ‘Oh, my poor dear, you don’t know what you’ve come to! And there’s nothing I can do—there’s nothing anyone can do!’
The moment passed. Anne straightened up and turned. She went into the bathroom and washed, and then she went downstairs with Thomasina and into the little sitting-room on the left-hand side of the hall.
Lilian Fancourt was sitting there knitting. She began almost before Anne was in the room.
‘Are you very tired? Oh, you must be, I’m sure! Thomasina will bring you something to eat, and then you must get to bed! Oh, yes, I must insist upon that! Now, Thomasina, what shall it be? We mustn’t let her think that we mean to starve her here. What do you think?’
‘I’ll see what cook’s got ready,’ said Thomasina, and was gone.
Lilian Fancourt put her knitting down on her knee.
‘You’d think she’d be more interested,’ she said in a light complaining tone. ‘She’s been with us thirty years. It just shows, doesn’t it?’ She picked up her knitting again. ‘Do you like this? It was meant to be a jumper for me, but of course I don’t know whether I shall wear it now.’
Thomasina went through to the kitchen. It was not the old kitchen of the house—that had been abandoned sixty or seventy years ago. She went through a door at the back of the hall and along a stone passage until she came to it. There was a little elderly woman there with light frizzy blonde hair done up in a bun. She wore a dark grey dress with a big cook’s apron covering it so that only the sleeves and a bit of the hem showed. She was sitting at the kitchen table with a pack of cards spread out before her. She said without looking up, ‘Well, has she come?’
Thomasina said heavily, ‘Ay, she’s come, Mattie. I’m to take along a tray.’
Mattie gave a little crow.
‘And what did I tell you, Thomasina! P’raps you’ll believe me another time! She’ll come here and she’ll eat and drink solitary—that’s what I said not later than yesterday! But you didn’t believe me, now did you?’
Thomasina said, ‘No, I didn’t believe you, nor I won’t never, and not a bit of good your going on about it, Mattie. She looks as if what she needs most is a week in bed, the poor child!’
Mattie Oliver threw her a quick darting glance and chuckled.
‘Oh, that’s the way of it, is it? Haven’t you never had enough of putting people on pedestals and seeing them come topplin’ down? Oh, all right, all right, I’m a’comin’, aren’t I?’
On the other side of the house Anne felt the time go by fitfully, crazily. Lilian Fancourt never stopped talking, and it was all about nothing at all. There was no end to it. Your mind shut off in the middle of how inconvenient it was to have only two maids where there used to be seven or eight, and you came back to a long plaintive wail about how times had changed since the war.
‘But what I say is, there’s no need to change because other people do. My father never changed, never in the least, down to the day of his death a couple of years ago. He was ninety-five, you know, and he used to go out shooting until that last winter. Jim always said, “Let him alone—let him do what he wants to.” In fact I don’t know who was going to stop him. Not poor little me!’ She looked up coyly as she spoke.
Jim—Anne’s mind closed against the name. Not now—not here—not until she was fed and rested.
But Lilian Fancourt went on talking about him. Jim said this, and Jim said that, and Jim said the other.
And then the door opened and Thomasina came in with the tray. It was a blessed relief, because Lilian stopped talking about Jim. She looked up suddenly and said, ‘Where is Harriet?’
Thomasina said, ‘She’s not in yet.’
Lilian made a little vexed sound.
‘Oh dear—Father wouldn’t have liked it at all—not at all!’
And on that Harriet came in.
She was so tall that she seemed to look down upon Anne. She was so tall that she seemed to look down on herself. She had a small head on the top of a tall, lanky body, and she wore the kind of dark clothes that look as if they are meant to be mourning. Her hat was pushed back on her head. A capacious but shabby bag swung from her left hand. She put out the right with a curious poking effect, looked past Anne, and said with an odd rush of words, ‘I’m so sorry. Not to be in when you came. Have you been here long?’
When she tried to remember the rest of the evening she couldn’t. It was just a wash of pale-tinted platitudes. She was aware of Lilian, who talked incessantly and never said anything that you could remember, and of Harriet, who sat in the sofa corner with her eyes on what looked like a parish magazine. Every now and then she said something of what she was reading—‘Mr Wimbush says—’ or, ‘Miss Brown writes—’
Thomasina came in to take the tray. Going out with it, she turned and surveyed the scene.
‘If you were to ask me, I’d say early to bed—that’s what I’d say.’
The words came into the fog in which Anne was. They seemed to start in her brain, in her heart, and to flow out from there until the room was full of them. For the last half-hour Lilian Fancourt’s words had come and gone in the fog, come and gone again. She lifted her eyes and looked across to where Thomasina stood by the door. She couldn’t see her distinctly because of the mist in the room. She didn’t know that her eyes looked through the fog with a desperate appeal.
Thomasina went out of the room, and she had a moment of absolute desolation. And then in what felt like the same moment she was back again. The door hadn’t shut. It couldn’t have shut, because it didn’t open again. Thomasina was there one moment, and the next she was coming back. She came back into the room and across it.
‘You’re coming to bed, Mrs Jim!’ she said. ‘If ever I see anyone ready for bed, it’s you, my poor dear, so you’ll just come along!’
Anne got up on her feet with a steadying arm to hold her.
She said good-night to Lilian, and good-night to Harriet, and she got out of the room. She didn’t know what they said in reply.
Lilian had a good deal to say. The words drifted lightly by and were gone. Harriet detached herself momentarily from the parish magazine. She said in a surprised voice, ‘Oh, are you going? Good-night.’ And then Thomasina had her through the door and it was shut.
She was in that state where the ordinary restraints are gone. She did not know that she was going to speak, but she heard herself saying. ‘I don’t belong anywhere—I just don’t belong.’ And then there was a kind of blank. They were going up the stairs. It was very difficult. She did her best, but it was very difficult. She was aware of Thomasina’s arm at her waist and of the baluster rail under her hand. The stairs took a long time to climb—a long, long time. There were times when she didn’t know what she was doing—times when Thomasina’s encouraging voice went away to the merest whisper, so faint that she could not really hear it. There were times when she didn’t know anything at all. And yet all these times passed. There came the moment when she felt the pillow under her head, and the moment when the light went out and left her free to a world of sleep.
Time passed—a lot of time. She roused up once and stirred in bed, to feel an exquisite relief and sink again into that deep, deep sleep.
When at last she awoke it was light outside. She lay for a few moments seeing the strange room but not fully conscious of it. There was sunshine outside the window and a twittering of birds—sunshine and bird song. She drew in a long breath and began to remember.
The day before. It was like unpacking a crowded, ill-packed piece of luggage. She lay quite still and tried to get it sorted out. Part of yesterday came gradually into shape. Every time she went over it in her mind the outline was more decided, the detail more apparent. From the moment when she stood in the dark, four steps up from a girl’s murdered body, to the last conscious moment before she slipped into the darkness of sleep, it was all there. But back beyond that dark moment there was nothing. There was nothing at all. She didn’t know who she was, or why she was here. There was cloud where there should have been memory. There was nothing but a dark cloud.
She pushed back the bedclothes, jumped out of bed, and went over to the window. The bright pale light of early morning was everywhere. She looked out onto a green lawn running down to great cedar trees. The air was fresh against her face, her neck, her uncovered arms. She looked down at herself and saw that she was wearing a pale pink nightgown. The sleeves and the neck were edged with lace. There was a blue ribbon run through a slotted insertion at the waist. A pale blue knitted jacket hung on the bottom rail of the bed, a pink ribbon to tie it. She put the blue jacket on. It felt warm and comfortable.
She got back into bed. These must be Lilian’s clothes. Not Harriet’s. Certainly not Harriet’s. She began to wonder what Harriet’s things would be like and pulled up from that to think with a breathless start, ‘What does it matter? What does anything matter except who I am and how did I get here?’ A feeling of horror came over her—the old, old feeling of being lost in a strange world and not knowing where to put a foot. This that looked safe ground might crumble when you set foot upon it, the other that looked dry and stony could break suddenly and let the drowning waters through. For a moment she was beside herself with terror of the unknown. Then the swirling mists cleared and there came up in her strength and courage for the new day.